


Knight-Commander

by Dragonflies_and_Katydids



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II
Genre: Abuse of Authority, Cullen Has Issues, Extremely Dubious Consent, F/M, Orgasm Delay, meredith takes advantage
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-11
Updated: 2016-09-11
Packaged: 2018-08-14 10:36:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,477
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8010340
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dragonflies_and_Katydids/pseuds/Dragonflies_and_Katydids
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For the prompt, "Dirtybadwrong dubcon with abuse of power and mind games and Cullen wanting very, very much to do right by his Knight-Captain."</p>
<p>I hope I did it justice!</p>
            </blockquote>





	Knight-Commander

**Author's Note:**

  * For [lemonsharks](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lemonsharks/gifts).



All he's ever wanted is to be a good templar, to be given orders and follow them, and Meredith makes that so easy. She never asks his opinion, never asks about what he wants. Neither of those matter, because she is Knight-Commander, and he is not, and so all he has to do is what she tells him.

For now, his orders are to provide her with a report on the newest recruits: which ones need additional training, and which ones need to be reminded that they're only recruits, and which ones might be suitable for promotion in the next few months. As he talks, he keeps his eyes fixed on the wall behind her chair, though Meredith herself is preparing for bed. He's aware of her moving around the room, the way he's aware of everyone since Kinloch Hold, but it's hard to feel threatened by someone removing armor and hanging up a sword.

It's a little surprising when she pulls her shirt off over her head, and he stutters to a halt before she says impatiently, "And?"

He gives himself a small shake and resumes his report. It isn't as if he's never seen a naked woman before--templar recruits aren't granted that much modesty--but it is the first time he's ever had a commander take a sponge bath while he gives a report.

Even facing forward, he can watch her from the corner of his eye, her poise unshaken by the occasionally undignified positions required by bathing. It's the weight of her presence that holds his attention, but at the same time, he can't help looking at her body: scars and heavy muscles from a lifetime at war, small breasts with dark nipples pebbled from the chill in the air. Her hair is pinned up for the moment, leaving a few tendrils loose at the base of her neck.

What would they feel like, if he touched them?

For the first time since he met her, he's aware of her as a woman rather than as his commander, and it makes him uneasy. A commander is what he wants, not another fallible mortal like himself.

His report is done at almost exactly the same time as her bath, and he falls silent, waiting for instructions and trying to suppress the anxiety gathering in his chest. If she isn't in command, isn't in control, then everything falls apart, all the carefully constructed walls that keep his memories at bay.

"Is there anything else?" she asks as she circles the desk, still naked.

"No, Knight-Commander," he says, pulling in a deep, quiet breath through his nose. Sometimes it calms the panic before he begins to shake.

She sits in her chair, settling in as if there's nothing in the least unusual about the situation. The incongruity of it almost makes him laugh, Meredith naked and regal behind her desk, as if she's ready to receive the viscount himself.

The laugh dies when he meets her eyes, as hard and level as ever. There's not even a challenge in them, because that would imply anything he did was worthy of such a thing. She simply looks at him, and he realizes she doesn't need her armor or her sword or even her clothes to command him. Naked, she is still Meredith Stannard, Knight-Commander of Kirkwall.

His Knight-Commander, and for the first time, he thinks it odd that the words are phrased like that. She isn't his; he is hers.

"Come here," she says. Her finger draws an arc from his position, around the desk, to a place a few feet away from her.

He follows the path she marked, obedience another shield between himself and Kinloch Hold, and comes to a stop where she indicated.

She turned her chair while he wasn't paying attention, and now she faces him, one leg crossed over the other at the knee and her hands resting lightly on the chair's arms. Her gaze is cool and assessing, the same look she gave him the first time he reported to her office, and the anxiety recedes a little further.

"Have you ever bedded a woman?" she asks. It's the tone she used to ask him whether he'd worked much with crossbows, that first time she saw him.

"No, Knight-Commander," he says now, though the answer makes him flush.

"Mmm." The sound is skeptical, vaguely disappointed, and Cullen feels it like a kick to the stomach. He's a good templar, and he's never given her cause to be disappointed in him.

If he only knew what she wanted from him here, he could do better, but the situation is too far beyond his experiences. Silence is safer.

"Well," she says at last. "At least I won't have any bad habits to break."

He's still wrapping his head around that when she uncrosses her legs and spreads them wide, sliding down in the chair so her ass is nearly off the seat. "Come here," she says again.

Cullen hesitates, the panic surging up inside him. This is wrong, all wrong, against everything he learned as a recruit and as a templar at Kinloch Hold. There are rules against this-

"Come here," she says a third time, pointing at the floor between her feet. A little impatient, but even slouched down as she is, she is every inch the Knight-Commander.

And he is her templar, hers to command. Her word is his law, and if she's ordering him to do it, then it can't be wrong. He can't let it be wrong.

It's only two steps to where she wants him, and when she says, "Kneel," he doesn't hesitate.

From this position, he can't help but stare at the dark blond curls inches from his nose, and at the hints of pink beneath. He licks his lips nervously and waits to be told what to do.

"Give me your hands," she says, and when he does, she places them in the creases between thigh and hip, showing him how to use his thumbs to spread her open.

Cullen stares, aroused and terrified equally. Is he even allowed to be getting hard, or is that as ridiculous as getting hard while giving his report? Though after this, he'll never think about giving a report in quite the same way.

"You will use your mouth," she says, as crisp and precise as she is on the parade ground. "Not your hands for more than this, not until I say. For now, I will tell you what to do, and you will do it, but I expect you to learn."

Cullen nods eagerly. He'll learn whatever she wants, if it gives him the chance to earn her approval.

The faintest glimmer of humor breaks through her commander's mask. "You'll need to be a bit closer."

Flushing again, he leans in, bracing his hands carefully so as not to lean too much of his weight on her. He's caught enough rumors and bawdy jokes among recruits to have a general idea what he's supposed to do, but he's hesitant at first, barely touching his tongue to the edges of her folds.

"Harder," she says briskly. "I can barely feel it."

He obeys, licking along one side and back down the other, putting more force behind it as he waits for further instructions. And she isn't shy about giving them: harder, softer, higher, lower, left, right, until he's got the pattern, the rhythm of it. Where he can suck hard, even allowing his teeth to scrape occasionally, and where he has to use careful strokes with the flat of his tongue. There's no praise for the times he gets it right, but he knows what it means when her orders taper off and then stop completely.

Mostly he watches her hands where they rest on the arms of her chair, checking to see when her fingers curl against the wood. Once, they press in so hard the nails go white, but when he repeats what he did before, sucking on the hard nub of flesh at the top of her slit, she barks out, "Stop."

He stops instantly, pulling back his head without moving his hands. "I'm sorry," he says, only now aware of how his jaw aches. "I'll do better-"

"You will," she says, but there's no anger in her voice. "You're trainable, it seems, which is something."

It's the most praise she's ever given him, and it's more important to him than anything. The panic has subsided back to its usual background hum, and knowing he's done well pushes it even farther away. He feels almost normal, for the first time in months.

"Now watch," she says. "I expect you to learn this, too."

Her hand slides down between his, her fingers working their way through the folds. She uses a lighter touch than he would have expected, playing idly, tugging and twisting gently at the skin, always circling back to rub at the spot she stopped him from sucking. Watching her, he sees what he did wrong: she never touches it directly, always rubbing against it from one side or the other. Sometimes her fingers slip further down to tease at her hole without penetrating, but they always move back up soon enough.

His cock is hard, trapped painfully in his trousers, but it doesn't even occur to him to touch himself. She put his hands where they are, and she hasn't given him permission to move them. All he can do is follow her fingers with his eyes and taste the last traces of her on his lips.

She's starting to breathe faster, and Cullen can't stop the way his breathing changes to match hers. Her fingers are moving faster, too, and her voice is tight when she says, "Two fingers." A pause while she takes a breath. "Do what I showed you."

Her hand moves down to demonstrate, and he imitates her quickly, wanting to prove that he's been paying attention. The tips of his index and middle fingers flick over her hole, pressing against the softness without pushing in, and her fingers rub at herself again, her hips shifting and rocking now. He wants her to move like that with his mouth on her, and Maker save him, the wet sounds of their fingers moving are almost more than he can take.

Then her muscles tense, and oh, he can feel the flesh under his fingers _pulse_ , clenching and releasing over and over again, and he can't even breathe. Pleasure rips through him, as overwhelming as if he's spent himself, but when he can think again, his cock is still hard and no wetness stains the front of his trousers.

He looks up, face flushed from something other than embarrassment, to find her watching him. "Definitely trainable," she says, as if settling an argument with herself.

While he's still trying to decide if he's supposed to respond to that, she pushes his hands away and straightens in her chair. "Stand up," she says, and he bounces to his feet so fast he almost hits her by accident. "Step back."

At least she doesn't look angry, but the flush on his cheeks is definitely as much embarrassment as arousal now. Not that any of it makes a difference to his cock.

She gives him a considering look, her eyes lingering on his cock where it tents the front of his trousers. "What do you plan to do about that?" she asks.

He hadn't had a plan, per se, but he'd certainly intended to return to his room and stroke himself. What falls out of his mouth, though, is, "Whatever you want me to, Knight-Commander."

"And if I told you not to touch yourself?"

"Then I wouldn't." His cock protests, but he doesn't care. The world is centered again, and Meredith is that center. He doesn't matter, so long as she's pleased with him.

She's still watching him, weighing him with her eyes. "Are you hoping to fuck me?"

"Only if you want me to," he says truthfully.

That gets him a brisk nod. "Good."

The praise thrills him, makes his heart pound with the need to do...something. He doesn't even know what, just that he wants her praise more than he wants anything else.

"You may go," she says.

He comes to attention, an involuntary reaction to the words. "Yes, Knight-Commander." Without waiting for another dismissal, he heads for the door.

Halfway there, she stops him by saying, "You haven't asked whether you're allowed to touch yourself tonight."

He turns, too well trained to ever address a superior over his shoulder. "You didn't tell me I could," he says. His body aches at the thought of trying to sleep with his cock this hard, but he'll manage somehow.

"I didn't," she agrees. "And you didn't ask."

"I...you..." He stops, takes a deep breath. "It's not my place to ask, Knight-Commander."

Her smile is positively feline. "You're right," she says. "It isn't your place. And because you know that, because you've done well, you may touch yourself tonight. Once."

"Thank you, Knight-Commander," he breathes out, unable to find better words for his gratitude.

"That's for tonight only," she warns. "I will tell you every night when and where and how you are allowed release. If I am not here, or I say nothing, then the answer is no."

"Yes, Knight-Commander." Her hand is wrapped around him now, controlling every part of his life, and the relief is nearly staggering. All he has to do is follow her orders.

He feels drunk as he walks the halls back to his room, and he receives the occasional odd look from people more used to seeing him scowl than smile. The feeling only intensifies when he opens the door to his room and finds it empty. Samson is often gone at night--perhaps to visit the Blooming Rose?--and from past experience, Cullen knows he won't return until the small hours of the morning.

It means he can stretch out naked on his bed and draw out the moment as long as he can. He keeps his touch very light, palm and fingers barely grazing over his cock, splaying his hand on his stomach when he gets too close. Over and over in his head, he hears Meredith tell him that his release is entirely up to her, and that more than any amount of stroking is what pushes him over the edge, back bowed so far his ass leaves the bed, free hand stuffed in his mouth to stop any noise.

He barely has the energy to clean himself off afterward, and only knowing exactly how much Samson will tease him is enough to get him moving. His body feels loose and relaxed, and when he closes his eyes at last, he sleeps without dreams.


End file.
